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| In May of 1976, this photo of me was taken immediately after I received the Sacrament of Confirmation. I was a thirteen year old eighth grade student in my Catholic parish school. Just one month after this event, I was sexually assaulted for the first of many times by a clergyman inside of my parish church and rectory. My church was located directly across the street from my family’s home. |
The Faith I Was Given, the Wounds I Bear
I write the following narrative not
to accuse, not to demand, and not to destroy—but simply to speak my truth. I’ve
come to realize that failing to speak becomes its own kind of emotional prison,
and that for those who wish to speak truth to power, doing so is the only real
doorway to peace—and to justice—too.
My Truth:
When I was a small child, I learned
of the steadfast and tender faith of my ancestors—a faith rooted in tradition
and woven into the very fabric of my family’s Catholic life. My mom and dad
taught me that, more than they themselves could ever love me, I was loved by
God; and that beneath the shadow of God’s wings, I would always be safe. And
so, with the trust of a child, I believed this without question.
In my innocence, guided by a
trusting and unblemished mind, I believed that those who most represented God
on earth were the priests of my church—the men who celebrated our Sunday
Masses, visited our school classrooms, often spoke kind words to me, and sometimes
affectionately tousled my hair as I waited beside them in the sacristy before
serving at the altar.
These same men—so beloved by my
parents, grandparents, family, and friends—often came into our home, sharing in
our joys, celebrating our happiest moments, and standing beside us during
seasons of hardship, suffering, and grief.
But for me, all of that affection,
trust, admiration, and unquestioning devotion vanished in a single devastating
moment—and was then followed by countless others like it. My innocence and my
faith were utterly shattered when, at the age of thirteen, I was targeted,
manipulated, and violated by clergymen—men whom, just like those before them, I
had admired with nearly all of my heart.
Those dreadful experiences seared my
soul and destroyed the trust I had once carried so freely. For every year since
those traumatic moments of my youth, they have laid upon the deepest parts of
my being a burden of shame, confusion, and false guilt—weights that were never
mine to bear. And even now, from time to time, these burdens return like a dark
and unwelcome spirit, breaking my peace and unsettling the stability of my
mind.
As I journey toward the evening of
my life, these memories—and the wounds they left—have resurfaced as a raw and
bitter pain. They color nearly every doubt or question I have about the love of
God, about those entrusted with proclaiming and witnessing to that love, and
about the authenticity of the power structures within the Catholic Church—a
Church to which, somehow, I still long to remain loyal. Loyal in the way a
child is expected to trust the parents who promised to love their children
without condition and without end.
And so once again, I find myself
praying and pleading for peace of mind, for healing, and for the strength I
need to be faithful and true to that so-called loving God whom, so long ago, I
was taught to trust and to believe in with the pure submission of my heart, my
mind, and my soul.
God help me, please.
I cannot change what happened to me.
I cannot erase the moments that tore my innocence from me, nor the shadows that
have haunted my life now for so many years. But I can honor the truth. I can
name what was done. I can refuse to lie for the sake of appearances or to
protect those who broke what they were entrusted to safeguard. And this not
only for my own sake, but also for the sake of others who have been
harmed—those abused, neglected, abandoned, or forsaken by a Church or by Church
leaders who have failed to live the very mission they were ordained to serve.
And if there is any grace left for
me to discover, it will be found not in forgetting, but in living honestly—in
refusing to hide beneath the silence that once imprisoned me.
My story is not only a story of
harm. It is also the story of one still standing, still questioning, still
seeking, still yearning for God despite every reason to turn away. If there is
redemption for me, it will be because I dared to SPEAK.
And so…
A
Prayer from the Wounded Heart
O God, if you are indeed there—if
your love is not merely a story whispered to children—then look upon me in my
weariness and do not turn away. I am tired of carrying memories I never chose,
burdens I never deserved, and questions that still echo through the chambers of
my soul. If you truly are the God I was taught to trust in my earliest days,
then hold me like your child. If you are the healer proclaimed in scripture,
then touch the wounds I once hid for too long. If you are the shepherd who
seeks the lost, then find me now—in the evening hours of my life—and take me
gently back into the trustworthy and oft-proclaimed safety of your fold.
Do not let my story end in
bitterness. Do not let my spirit collapse under the weight of what others have
done. Give me peace… a peace that has, in truth, eluded me for so many years.
And if you still desire my service
to your people—bruised, broken, and weak though I may be—then let me offer it
with love. And I ask you: make of it something you can redeem.
Amen.
A
Survivor’s Prayer
Amen.
